Californication and Red Hot Chile Peppers: Part I

Admittedly, an emigrant bandying "Californication" sounds a tad sanctimonious. After all, I "fornicated" Colorado back in '76. My justification is that I didn't try to impose Missouri's mo-hill Ozark mores on my new found home. Hell, I didn't even like Missouri's mores, let alone its landscapes, cityscapes, and funnel cake mentality. I had to leave before I became one of them... certainly before I had children who most assuredly would be cursed with hillbilly speech impediments. 


One tornadic day, enough was enough. I quit my treadmill job as a Yamaha motorcycle salesman... loaded all my eight-track tapes and record albums into the cab of an old six banger three speed on-the-column GMC pickup, and got the hell out of "Mo Town." "Home" was a 19 foot Prowler travel trailer, fish-tailing in my rearview mirror as I headed into a setting sun; excited as hell and scared shitless, all in the same foul breath of Kansas stockyard air. Grossly underpowered and overloaded, my Jimmy cleared the Continental Divide on Monarch Pass by the skin of my coffee stained teeth. 

Yep, I left Missouri's muggy, insect plagued summers of misery in a cheap oil haze of blue smoke and humidity, and set off on a quest for contentment, peace, and answers to one of Life's big questions. I wanted to know why my dad, a physical specimen for a 61 year old—and a Godly man if there ever was one, had just dropped dead from a heart attack a few weeks shy of his Social Security retirement? 

I went looking for answers; trying to make sense out of the depths of chaos and loss. But asking "why" seemed to enkindle unsatisfactory answers that only gave rise to more questions. Climbers have a saying, "The mountain doesn't care." It took wisdom-building decades for this man-child to come to terms with the reality that, neither does the Universe.  

If one digs deep... peels back the layers of heartache... they might discover how certain past experiences can end up affecting choices made the rest of their lives. But letting negative experiences guide our decision making is like letting our tastebuds guide our menu; it's junk food for the soul, and just as life-shortening. Is it any wonder I rolled the "dice" and walked away from a solid career at age 49? I sure as hell wasn't going to count on a fair and equitable Universe and work till the day I died. 

I landed in Montrose, Colorado... the Uncompahgre Valley... a sparsely populated western slope town about as far from civilization as one could get. Uncompahgre rolled off my tongue; it's a Ute Indian name that loosely translates to "red warm water springs." One look at some of the creeks running from Red Mountain and you'll understand. Montrose was undiscovered in 1976. It had only one stoplight and a handful of residents... all trying to scratch out a living suckling on the hind tit of poor dirt farmers and cowboy ranchers. The Co-op Feed Store down by the railroad tracks was where they gathered... an unlikely kinship between sod-busters, sheepherders and cattlemen, warm as the coffee on the potbellied stove.  

I found the only job in town and got busy, working and recreating in a seemingly unlimited sea of unspoiled BLM and National Forest lands. It was similar in many respects to rural areas in Arizona where I grew up... unpopulated, wide open, mountainous... only much colder and snowier. I took up long distance running in an effort to better cope with nagging sadness and anger left over from the sudden, brutal loss of my father. I soon discovered that there wasn't enough miles in the county nor endurance in my legs for that. Only time can fill holes in hearts; miles serve only to distract and fatigue.

Nowadays I return to Arizona in wintertime for it's Sonoran Desert bounty, temperate climate, and because it reminds me of childhood years spent growing up. It also reminds me of Dad, Mom, and sister, Sally Jo... all long deceased. The other day I recalled Dad, trying to eat homegrown red hot chili peppers that his Mexican ranch hand Manuel always brought for lunch. Manuel downed one after another and never broke a sweat. Dad, however, suffered mightily. Face flushed, eyes teared, he'd laugh along with Manuel at his lame gringo bravado. 

I remembered Sally Jo, too. Nine years my senior, she'd take me on overnight horseback rides into the mountains south of Phoenix. Campfires... rattlesnakes... coyotes howling through the night; it was quite an experience for a little kid. 

Time changes us, for better and worse. It smoothed out some of my rough edges for sure, but not the deepening wrinkles in my face. Arizona's indescribable landscapes and precious family memories are, and always will be, part of what makes me tick. To me, remembering is tantamount to honoring. Forgetting, is loss upon loss.

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Stay tuned for Part II of, Californication and Red Hot Chile Peppers. Here's a teaser... 

"When Escalade, Volvo and Lexus SUV's replace VW Bugs, Vanagons, and School Bus homes behind the Funky-Town shops, they tend to lose their soul. Rust is painted over; dilapidation gets remodeled; dirt streets are paved. Soon, there is an artificial and hollow ring that hangs in the well perfumed air, shortly after Richy Rich buys a "Hobby Shop' just for something to do."

More on Tubac and touring the U of A campus with friend Sandy as our guide. Now here are a few photos of both...